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Skarsind That Was
Skarsind That Was by Veikko I am a well-versed traveller of the Mark. The wisdom I possess, I have garnered from many a hearth and home, for we Winterfolk always show hospitality to those who need it. Any traveller visiting a hall may beg of their hosts a drink, a plate of hot food and a warm bed for a night, and can do so without handing over a single coin or even, if they are that way inclined, not even a word of thanks. However, whilst that is our custom, in practice it usually turns into many drinks, plenty of food, and much gratitude from the traveller in question. Courtesy gets you everywhere, and it certainly got me everywhere. So I will, in this first section, endeavour to provide something of a guide to your newfound lands, the lands that I grew up in and the lands that we fought to secure. Gildenhiem and Gildemark I was born in Gildenheim, once the second largest settlement of Wintermark. The city was a magnificent sight to behold even as it was approached. Following the well-worn trade route you will find the alpine forest thinning out around you, the road turning west and downhill. As you follow the road down you will be given your first glimpse of Gildenheim, stood on the ice cliffs almost perfectly perpendicular to the path you take. But the path leads you downwards, not to Gildenheim proper, but to the vast mouth of a runecarved ice cave. It was in that very cave that the runes we use to empower our magics were found. You will see them the moment you enter the cave, shimmering into and out of existence as you pass by them, as fine as a knife cutting into glass. Some of them have been sliced into the ice the size of a thimble, some of them several hand-spans across. Aesh, Bravash, Cavul, Diras, Evrom, Feresh, Gralm, Hirmok, Irremais, Jotra, Kyrop, Lann, Mawring, Naeve, Ophis, Pallas, Queros, Rhyv, Sular, Tykonus, Ull, Verys, Wyr, Xun, Yoorn, Zorech - I named them all from memory, I hope you are suitably impressed - scrawled in the ice as if the cavern had been some blank canvas for the runesmith's artistry. There, too, were the runes inscribed in their groups, the Runes of Autumn, the Runes of Winter, the Runes of Day, the Runes of Night. Gralm and Ull standing on their own on opposite ends of the chamber, Destiny and Chance, mystic and uncategorised. And also spaces, space that if you were to enter the cave without a mystical mind-set you would think were just sections of the wall that had been left without carving. Those of us who are more mystically inclined (or at the very least can spot patterns) would note that these are intentional spaces - spaces for the unnamed rune, the rune beyond creation. I know a lot of ritualists used to have formative experiences within those caves, meditating amongst the runes and allowing the various essences of the world - the realms, the virtues, the very wealth of all that life has to offer us - be made physical and compartmentalised in amongst those runes, and to sit in a place saturated with the energy of those runes. I must say when I have been in there, not being a magician myself, I found it a daunting and fascinating place, a place that was doubtlessly rich in history and potency, but almost irritating. It was almost like when you read a book but you are distracted from your reading, and so you read the same paragraph over and over, struggling to take it in. It isn't that the subject matter wasn't fascinating, for it was. But lacking that connection to the runes barring Lann, the experience did not feel complete to me. I understand that once the Thule took Gildenheim, they began to tunnel beneath those ice caves. I wonder if they blemished the pre-existing runes or not? I doubt they would. The Thule are mystically inclined enough to know not to disturb a place of such power. I am surprised to find that there were secrets beneath the tunnels through. A runeforge! I wonder if whoever engraved those runes had used installed it for the purposes of producing the cave, or if the cave by its formation lent itself to being a site where a runeforge was built. All we know for certain is that the Thule themselves did not build the runeforge, but knew to look beneath the caves for it. The cave of runes is guaranteed to give you a chill as you pass it, and not only because of the ice cliffs that it is built within. That chill will leave you when you climb the hill to Gildenheim proper. The majority of the buildings are a combination of wattle-and-daub and stone mined from the nearby eastern mountains that separate Wintermark lands to Varushkan territory. From the top of this incline you will be able to look west and see the thick alpine forests of Hercynia, the territory of our Navarr neighbours, and to the south are the roads that will lead you to Temeschwar, an Imperial territory of complex political ownership. Gildenhiem as such was not just a site of great mystical importance, but a great trading place. Most of the buildings in the trading square are grey stone with thatched roofs, with wooden signs hanging over the doors. The square itself was vast, with many of the stalls being permanent fixtures of their own, though the north end was always for collapsible stores and tents only so that stages could be erected there for Witans and other important events. I used to run around that market place with some of the other children, playing with toy swords or taking turns hiding from one another. There was a Cambion baker I was very fond of as a child - she was a friend of my father's, so when he went in to talk with her I would wander around behind the counter where she had her dough rolled out and pies cooling. When I left for Crow's Keep at the age of ten, my father took me in to see her one last time and I wept because I would miss her, and she let me roll out the dough for some apple tarts she was making. It's something I will have to remember for when I have children - it's one thing to sooth a child and tell them it's going to be better, but a far better thing to give them something constructive to do. I was delighted when she came around to our home that evening with the pie that I had helped make - even if my participation had been just to over-enthusiastically roll out some dough. Being at Anvil reminds me often of Gildenhiem - the smells of cooking meats and spices, the clang of metal as blacksmiths work, exotic silks and local furs hung on display, hawkers coming springing out of their stalls to try and sell you their wares. A funny story, that happened to me at Anvil - a gentleman came springing out of his shop with a metal pendant in his hand, saying 'I don't always do this, but I feel this is fated to be in your possession'. The pendant was of a bird's skull. At least it can never be said that I am difficult to buy for! Though on the subject of bird skulls, the absolute highlight of Gildenhiem as far as I am concerned is the Hall of the White Ravens. It used to be so magnificent. A long hall of clean white granite, expertly cut by the finest masons that Wintermark had to offer. Façades of ravens embossed the stones, complex and intricate depictions that seemed so lifelike that you could swear the dithering of the feathers rustled in the breeze. The main doors to the Hall were carved as two giant wings, knitting together seamlessly and nearly impossibly as the doors were closed. The keystone of the doorway was a raven's head, it’s perfectly white eye polished to shine like glass. And inside, a vast and marble-white chamber, floors the colour of freshly settled snow, and pillars that rose from ceiling to rooftop, drawing the eyes attention to the hundreds of beautifully carved ravens that sat amongst the rafters. The light was perfect in there, perpetually a pale pre-dawn blue. I remember even as a child standing in those and feeling so utterly awestruck by it all, at once daunted and comforted by the artistry and diligence that had gone into building – no, sculpting that hall. I think that is what made me want to follow in my Uncle’s footsteps to become a Stormcrow. From there, to travel through Skarsind, you would depart Gildenheim and go northwest. Gildermark is a very flat region, and we are given to believe that once it was thick with dense evergreen forests, but we turned that lumber to that good use to build our settlements. But at least we left some forests intact. The land looks so bare now, after the Thule. Trees have been felled with abandon, stumps and splinters left recklessly to the winds and weather, so rapacious has been the Thule’s occupation of the land. I urge you, those that settle in Gildermark, plant more. This land was once much greener, much more vibrant than it was. If you can restore even some of the forests, you will see the flats transformed into a remarkable landscape worthy of painting, not the sad and destitute planes that they are currently. To the north, however, you will find a most wondrous sight, the Brilliant Shore. It is truly breath-taking as, when the sun reflects on the workings on the cliff faces near Gildenheim, the reflection is positively blinding. That is how this quarry earned its name, so brilliant and iridescent it is. The deposits of white granite in the Brilliant Shore were discovered centuries ago by a young icewalker (the title we give Suaq magicians who embody all that a Suaq must be, erudite, pragmatic, shrewd and, most of all, heroic) who took shelter in the area while the region was assailed by a magical storm conjured by the Thule. When the magician noticed that the storm passed over the cave where they were sheltering, they realized that something in the area must be weakening the curse, and it was the Brilliant Shore that was sheltering them. I was thankful to find come my recent journey through Skarsind that the Brilliant Shore still stood much as I remembered it. I had feared the Thule might have mined it to the bare earth, but the white granite cliffs remain intact, as radiant as ever. There is a message of hope in that somewhere. As destructive as the Thule was, much of Skarsind has endured their presence. Estermark and the Winds of Sydanjaa Following the northern roads, you will find the lack of tree cover will expose you to the harsh winds of Sydanjaa. Here, it might be pertinent to talk about Sydanjaa, as you will feel its chill constantly through your coming years in Skarsind and it will be important to you to know about what the storm brings to us. Sydanjaa is not in Skarsind, so you might be asking yourself what purpose a section on Sydanjaa has in a book that is about the territory of Skarsind. What I want to address is not strictly Sydanjaa, the storm itself – but rather what the storm means to us, as scions sired by the storm. As Winterfolk, we are all of us born in in the winds of Sydanjaa, the Heart of Ice, and the eternal storm in the north of Semersuaq that has never yielded. Constant are its howling winds, loud enough to deafen the unprotected ear. Constant are the furious gales that could throw warriors clad entirely in steel off of their feet. Constant is its deathly chill that freezes tears and steals the breath. To step into the storm is to be barraged by sharp ice and heavy rock contained within its maelstrom, to have your vision obscured by snow so thick that white is all that you can see. Sydanjaa is endless and unrelenting, and has been the end of many a Wintermarker who has lost more than they can bear to. To walk into the storm is a practice wherein a Wintermarker will take one final voyage into the Sydanjaa, never to return. It is to meet an end on your own terms, when you truly have no more to give to the world and can see the end of your skein. Yet those who step into the Sydanjaa are not without courage. Indeed, they follow in the steps of one of the great heroes of the Mark. Empress Mariika ruled the Empire through a golden time, where she recovered a damaged economy through shrewd cunning, where she encouraged the ambitions of others to take active part in the running of their Empire, promoting loyalty between the nations and the prosperity of the self. She sat on the throne for a total of twenty-two years, but come those later years she grew ill. A wasting disease began to wrack her body, but to remain strong in the face of her Empire; she hid that fact from all save her closest of friends, the enigmatic Kallavesi shaman Tekupala and the Steinr warrior-hero Inga Tarn. Soon, her illness became impossible to hide. At the beginning of 233 YE, she would only occasionally cough blood into a handkerchief, easy enough to hide from view of those who attended her. By the beginning of 234 YE, coughing fits would punctuate near every sentence she spoke. At that point she abdicated the throne and returned to Semersuaq. She looked upon her homeland one last time, then walked north into Sydanjaa, accompanied only by Tekupala. Whatever lies beyond the storm, only one person knows: Tekupala returned several years after they and Empress Mariika had walked into the storm, but only long enough to return Mariiika's spear to her surviving family. Tekupala is said to appear from time to time, offering cryptic advice and riddles where they must before departing again. They have appeared as a man, a woman; they have appeared as a human, a naga and a briar. This may well be the result of ritual magic, Tekupala known to have been an accomplished practitioner of Night, though would often say that their lack of identity was key to the magics they practiced. Regardless, we may never know what truly exists beyond the Storm. All we know is what comes out of the storm. Giant ice golems, bipedal creatures of hewn ice and cascading hoarfrost, the smallest of them two heads taller than the average Steinr warrior, will emerge from the thrashing blizzards, treading the same paths across the ices of Sermersuaq before returning to the blizzard. These are the Artok, and these creatures can be tamed, by those with the wits and guile to tame them - the carving of runes into the hard-packed ice of their bodies can direct the creatures by the will of the runesmith. They are a powerful force to wield against your enemies, and a terrible thing to have your enemies direct at you, though as beings of ice they do not thrive well outside of the cold. That thought alone gives me grave concern for those who step within the blizzard. Is it the cold that first claims their lives? Is it the shards of ice that wrack their bodies into submission? Or do the Artok behave differently within the storm, acting of their own will - or by the will of Sydanjaa itself, the very storm that birthed them or imprisons them? Perhaps there are worst creatures than the Artok within the storm. But to that end the Storm is closely connected to the skein, the Wintermark belief in the journey that our lives must take. We believe that our lives are part of a great tapestry almost, that our lives are woven together by the decisions we make, the connections that we foster, the friends and allies that we make. The winds of Sydanjaa are the constant reminder of the encroaching end of our Skeins, and from that constant cold we find the drive to do as many great things as we can in our short lives. When you find the first length of intact forest coming out of Gildermark, and the mountains draw near enough to nearly seem to grace the midday sun, you know that you have crossed into Estermark. Here once stood two of the largest settlements of Skarsind, Krysse and Gulhule. Krysse, in happier days, had close ties with nearby Mormyk in the Varushkan territory of Miekarova and was a local centre of trade between the two nations, hosting a market at each turning of the seasons. The Thule did not occupy Krysse, seeing it of little defensive value, and whilst it fared much better than Gildenheim had, there was still much work to be done by those who reoccupied the town. I understand that the Four-Seasons Market could well be reopened, and would provide whoever oversaw it excellent business opportunities. Gulhule, however, was renowned for those who forged runes and those who forged weapons. It was a prosperous town, and features heavily in the song Lament for Skarsind, for it was here that Empress Britta was instrumental in buying sufficient time for the people of Gulhule to escape the barbarian advance. I understand that many of the smiths fled and managed to found forges elsewhere, scattered across the Halls of Wintermark. Others took refuge in mineworkings, such as the extensive Wells of Janon or the tunnels operated by the Crimson Peak miners. Now that the Thule are defeated, it remains to be seen how prosperous these mines can be made again; the black maggots of the Thule stripped the area clean. Worse, as I learned when I was detained in Thule captivity, if they found that you were a runesmith you would be sent north, presumably to be put to work in the forbidding homelands of the barbarians. It is not all woeful, however: there were numerous miners found to have survived within the Wells of Janon. In amongst the seemingly inexhaustible vein of green iron, hundreds of miners had concealed themselves with the aid of the Night Eternal Janon himself who, as well as being the namesake of the mines, had long served as a patron of the hard-bitten miners. Skogei and the Will of Wintermark Travelling further east, you will find that the though the mountains flank either side of you, what you will see more than anything are the vast evergreens of Skogei. In the hinterlands you will find the Goeki Expanses, forests rich with dragonbone where a twisting maze of interconnected paths forms a network throughout the area. It is along these pathways that collectors pick their way, searching the undergrowth for deposits of the valuable material, but be warned, there are many a creature lurking within these forests that rely on dragonbone hunters to lose their way. Skogei, the settlement after which the region was named, was actually the last to be brought into Empire, as late as 154 years after the Empire’s first formation. Sadly it is not the only first that Skogei can boast, as its halls were first to fall during the invasion of Skarsind. In 371YE, at the very onset of the Thule Invasion, its wooden walls were burnt. As far as I am aware, there are no survivors from Skogei, so brutal was the Thule butchery. The surrounding forests, I am lead to believe, were badly tarnished by the Thule, a blackened scar of earth in amidst once beautiful green glens. I say ‘I am lead to believe’ there because I have only seen the settlement of Skogei once, before the invasion, and I have seen what has become of the area since. Hengesthal: The Will of Wintermark. It is aptly named, and you will recognise it the moment you see it as a most formidable fortification. Built on a low hill surrounded by a fence of sharpened stakes, the sturdy walls of the Will of Wintermark are reinforced by white granite. The tall central keep is flanked by two shorter towers and topped with a great beacon to warn of invaders. There is elegance to its simplicity, but I can assure you that the Will of Wintermark will fortify your homeland far into your generations. At Skogei’s eastern border with Miekarova stands Sylvihrafn, the Crystal Henge. Built near what was once the Hold of Hrafnar, they who own it are the Guardian of the Cairn. It is named for the late Sylvi Hrafn who fell during the Battle of Ikka's Tears; her body joins that of her ancestors among the cairns. The newly expanded circle was originally named the Sylvi Hrafn Crystal Henge, but as is the way in Wintermark the name was quickly shortened to Sylvihrafn. The Henge itself is reasonably old; the founders of the Hold of Hrafnar often performed magical rituals here. When the Thule barbarians conquered the Skogei Glens, they continued this practice themselves - there is some evidence that several enchantments designed to assist the invading armies originated among the stones and cairns. The ring consists of thirteen standing stones, around and between which are scattered low cairns of carved rocks. The stones are intricately threaded with mithril designs that denote the history of the battles with the Thule in Skarsind - both the recent invasion and liberation, and older conflicts stretching back to the dawn of Wintermark. The stones ‘draw up’ mana flows from deep underground, and the crystals produced form on and around the rocky cairns. The crystals gathered here have a distinctive silvery tinge, that the a few Scops have claimed makes them resemble tears. Crow’s Ridge and Crow’s Keep ‘I withstand the mightiest strike, but the softest breath wears me down; Men search what I have in my heart, but it is never love they have found; You drink my tears, which I gladly give, for I watch the birth and life and death of you all; Some call me mother, even if my embrace can kill, Some don't call me anything, but live with me still.’ The answer to this riddle is ‘the mountain’. Riddles are often crafted and taught amongst Stormcrows, the priests of our nation, to keep our minds sharp and cunning, and the best Skarsind crows were taught at Crow’s Keep. I should know, having trained there myself. And if there’s one thing any Stormcrow that trained at Crow’s keep can tell you, it’s a riddle to do with mountains, because all we see, all day every day, were the mountains. If you ever hear that one that begins ‘what has roots as nobody sees?’ it is your right to hurl something ideally soft and rotting at whoever said it, as that’s the oldest riddle about mountains in the world, and every Stormcrow knows the answer. If I have not stressed it enough, Crow’s Ridge is mountainous. Crow’s Keep was really functionally nothing more than a lookout tower and beacon, but its halls were filled with the craftiest of Stormcrows that were well honed in the art of war as much as they were prepared for riddles and other priestly affairs. I understand that a troupe from Anvil lead by Beodun Snowlock, ‘Warcrow’ and, as of writing this, the Cardinal of the Way, rid Crow’s Ridge of the THulish slavers that had occupied the halls in the Winter of 378. A curse upon my skein for having missed that opportunity, I was feverish with infection and spent most of my time sweating in the wagons and saw so very, very little of Anvil that muddy winter. I believe I was told about the intent to go to Crow’s Ridge but, in the height of my fever dreams, I do not remember much of anything. You will later in this volume read the Tale of Hauka, if you are not bored to tears by my writing style. It is the tale of how I obtained the crow’s skull that I wear upon my head, and as impolite as it would be to reveal how much of it is true and how much of it is a flight of fancy, I can tell you this: I was in Crow’s Ridge when the Thule began their attack. We could see from our lookout the fire as Skogei burned to the ground, we could hear the beat of Thule drums carried over the mountains like thunderclaps. Many Crows left those halls and headed west to find aid, many of them stayed within the halls to try and preserve the knowledge we had amassed. I went east. I abandoned the Uncle who had took me under his wing to teach me the ways of being a Stormcrow, an Uncle adamant that he would remain within the halls, and headed straight into Thule-occupied Skarsind. My intention was to get to Gildenheim, to find my parents and my siblings who I had left in the city, mystics more connected to the Runes than I. At this time, I was a priest of the Way, without a dedicated Virtue. Perhaps I should have dedicated to the False Virtue of Foolish Bastardry, considering how recklessly I travelled into Thule territory alone. I went in to Skogei hoping to cross the glens and get to Estermark, and my family. I came out of Skogei a Thule prisoner, bound by rough-hewn copper chains to others who the barbarians intended to work to death. I do not want to dwell on what bleak things I saw in my time in captivity, but it is what lead be to wear the chains that I had been held captive in, it is what lead me to dedicate myself to Loyalty, and it is what lead me to join Sigehold when the Three Brothers and the men under their command freed us from our captors. Since then, however, I had longed to return to Crow’s Keep and find what fate befell my Uncle. I learned in no short order that the family I had in Gildenheim had perished, so my Uncle was all that I had left. I thought about how his Pride and Courage caused him to stay in Crow’s Keep, and wondered if those virtues were rewarded. When finally I returned to Anvil in Spring of 379 YE, I made inquiries after Crow’s Keep, and by Summer 379 YE, with the coming of the Relinquishing of Skarsind, I had more than enough reason to take a pilgrimage around my home territory and see if my Uncle was amongst the survivors there. He was not. Some remembered him, but none had seen him since the Thule came. Herein is my one request, that you ensure that whoever occupies Crow’s Keep remember the name Kyösti Aarneson, so that if my clever Uncle, a Stormcrow of Pride, ever returns to that place having had hatched some cunning escape plan to get him out of harm’s way, that he might know of my fate and know where to find me if I yet live. Pakaanan: His Pass, His Tower, and his Lessons. Pakaanan was a Varushkan Volhov, an occultist itinerant that travelled from place to place fighting monsters and dealing with curses, be it unravelling them and freeing those who have been inflicted by them, or inflicting with curses those who they believe will learn a valuable lesson from them. Pakaanan is famous for numerous things. First and foremost would be his ritual ‘Pakaanan’s Iron Shutters’, who first used it to seal a regio ahead of a fleeing monster that was terrorizing a nearby vale. He and his apprentice Ijena beat the beast back to the regio it was using as its lair, and sealed the portal before the beast could pass through, allowing the pursuing schlacta to capture and dispatch it. After this initial success, Pakaanan used his influence with the Rod and Shield order to have the spell researched and codified; over the rest of his career he used it several times to variously hold a portal closed while a cabal dealt permanently with the regio; to prevent an angry Herald following him after a disastrous negotiation; and on at least two occasions with ilium to create permanent seals that (to this day) imprisoned monsters in their mystical lairs. Second of all would be a quote by Pakaanan about the ritual Hold Back the Frozen Hunger, which wards against the undead. He commented famously about the lack of experiments that had been done with the ritual, saying ‘The time to experiment with this kind of thing is when there is an angry Sovereign in your village, slaughtering your warriors; if you try to find out earlier, there's a good chance that your experiments will end with an angry Sovereign in your village, slaughtering your warriors.’ For us Winterfolk, what we know Pakaanan for is the fact that the westernmost territory of Skarsind is named after Pakaanan (and quite incorrectly written as Pakaanen on every map that I have ever seen). The hills of Pakaanan Pass were once the site of Pakaanan tower, an enigmatic tower of mammoth bone that was said to be impossible to enter. I am given to understand, and delighted to report, that during the occupation, the Thule magicians made several unsuccessful attempts to breach its walls. Given it allegedly contained the notes, paraphernalia and failed experiments of the legendary Volhov himself; it is unsurprising attempts to get inside proved so popular. No-one ever managed to enter it - or discover why Pakaanan spent so much time here in virtual exile from the forests of Miekarova where he was born. Though it is pointless me telling you of Pakaanan tower. Why? Because the entire tower, when I last walked through Pakaanan Pass, had completely vanished. I thought initially that the Thule had somehow breached its walls, but locals who were there at the time tell me that it actually vanished sometime after the liberation of Skarsind, leaving behind a circular garden of dark purple heather that flourishes to this day, yet never expands beyond the area that was once encircled by the tower's walls. I’d be cautious doing anything other than cultivating that garden. You never know when Pakaanan might put his tower back. Several miles east of the site where Pakaanan tower once stood is the Clattering Gulley, a winding rock crevasse used for generations by Steinr Runesmiths to collect mana crystals. It takes its name from hundreds of mammoth bones hung along the walls and inscribed with mithril-inlaid runes that twist and move in the occasional winds that roar down the gulley, seemingly from nowhere. I’m inclined to believe that the winds are some kind of current from Sydanjaa. That or Pakaanan’s raucous laughter having had made an impenetrable tower that befuddled even the Thule. Southpine and Solvihill All of this follows the road from Gildenheim, up north and to the west until you leave Skarsind, the roads I travelled most frequently in my upbringing and the roads I know best. We would do well to discuss Southpine, the territory you would enter if you were to walk (predictably) south out of Gildenheim. There are forests in Southpine, but they are not extensive. There are hills in Southpine, but they are not expansive. If you recall, I said that the lands of Gildenheim were once worth many a painting when they had all of their woodlands intact? Well I travelled through Southpine, and it remains as uninspiring a landscape as it had before the Thule occupation. You cannot write poetry of Southpine’s flats, because they are the flattest, and to call something the flattest is the least poetic thing you can do, but trust me, when you see Southpine, and just how flat it all is, you will think ‘my, this is the flattest land I have ever seen’ and be bored to tears by the mundanity of it all. Oh, it has its uses, in precisely the same way an abacus has uses. An artist looks at an abacus and sees something so complete and without artistry that they will leave to find something more thought-invoking, whereas a businessman would look at an abacus and realise it is a useful tool for counting. Southpine is the abacus of Wintermark. Uninspiring to the imagination and fit only for the purpose of trade. However, as with all things, there is Virtue in Southpine, and that Virtue can be found in the tale of the Southpine Southbound. Southpine’s largest settlement, Torfast, represented the high watermark of the barbarian advance in 373YE. The Thule invasion interrupted a major trade route to Temeschwar, a League City, where mercifully at the time; the Southpine Southbound caravan train were stranded, having been trading at Temeschwar. Those who ran the Southbound showed great courage, for they did not simply wait in Temeschwar for reinforcements. They knew that there would be refugees fleeing down the trade roads, so the Southbound loaded up and went right into the heart of Thule territory. There, they found the resistance, and were instrumental in smuggling valuable supplies to the freedom fighters of Skarsind – Sigehold Hall included amongst them. Torfast was retaken by Wintermark, League and Varushkan forces in 375YE, the first of the Skarsind settlements to be returned to the Empire. I am happy to say that the town is now reasonably fortified, and bears the scars of many battles. The Southpine Southbound will need a new owner, and I hope that whoever takes on the caravans will see the worth in them. And lastly, we come to Solvihill, which is most fitting. Not a single one of us that is sworn to the banner of Sigehold Hall were able to attend Anvil before Skarsind was retaken. Those of us who had not fled were not under Thule captivity or were not lost in the wilds, were here in Slovi, in the heart of the Slovihill forests, with the other scattered banners and broken halls, plotting our guerrilla war against the Thule warbands. Slovi served as a base of operations for the Imperial campaigns to drive the barbarians out. Once a foresting town providing Wintermark with wood, charcoal and beggarwood from the extensive barrens above the town, it was adopted as the base of campaign for the Imperial forces led by General Dunstan Irontongue. The settlement was hard pressed, and he led an aggressive series of sorties to relieve the pressure. He fell on one of these raids early in 376YE alongside Empress Britta. His body was never recovered. I understand that his personal unit of Suaq scouts declared themselves Frayed when their General fell, an act that is reserved in our culture for only those whose choices have damaged their skein (thus, Frayed). Wintermark heroes who are convicted of serious crimes, or individuals who feel great guilt over a personal failing, become frayed, and travel to the Labyrinth with their souls burdened by their act. For the frayed to restore their skein to a heroic path takes a great deal of effort and wisdom; for most warriors, battle is their only opportunity to achieve this. Here the frayed fight alongside a warband rather than as part of it and seek out the most dangerous fights in the hope of redeeming themselves. Such is the case for the men of Irontongue Hall. They fought valiantly alongside the Imperial armies dedicated to recovering Skarsind, but only when the Thule were driven from the territory did they consider their shame lifted. I do not know if they intend to stay within Skarsind and fight on the lands that their general perished on, or if they intend to move out of the territory with us. But if they stay, they are loyal men to these lands, and I ask that you never mention their misgivings – for when an individual’s Skein is repaired, it is customary to not mention or dwell upon the crime that they committed to become Frayed. The yield of Beggar's Lye from the Barrens is thankfully still plentiful. Those that fought from Slovi preserved the forests exceedingly well, but certainly within our hall Beggar’s Lye has become something of an in-joke. For the longest while, it was the only material that we had to trade with, as it was more plentiful than coin and the only thing that we who fought in the resistance could be paid with. So if ever you want to see a Sigeholder smile, particularly one who has a military unit under their command, you should ask them if they are short on Beggar’s Lye. The chances are we might be! But for the longest time, we absolutely were not, and more often than not such a question would be met with the words ‘fucking Beggar’s Lye.’ Sigehold Hall Perhaps this better befits the section pertaining to the reclamation of Skarsind, but it feels odd not to end this section of travel writing on the subject of where I most often travelled to – the home we made after the invasion, the halls of Sigehold. Sigehold is not a remarkable sight. It does not have walls of blazing white granite, no sculptures so realistic that seem to shift as if alive. It boasts a deposit of Green Iron in the local mines, but they are by no means as limitless as the Wells of Janon. We can scrape humble measures from our Beggarwood trees, and in our fertile soil we often find small amounts of Dragonbone. These are small and personal amounts that we were not able to cultivate into anything larger, for we built our hall’s walls of wattle, daub and stone when we returned to Skarsind in 377YE, and now, in 379YE, we leave them to you. It is not a hall that is valuable in its yield of materials, its strength in fortification or its military capacity, but the walls of what was Sigehold Hall contain something far more valuable. They contain our stories, our relief and exaltation at reclaiming our Homeland, our hope and ambitions at our new start, our fears and our concerns and the many heated nights of debate and tears about the subject of the relinquishing of Skarsind, and most of all our pride and our courage in the act of relinquishing our homes to you, our blood brethren and stalwart sistren allies of the Imperial Orcs. It was in these halls of simple stone that the two Books of Sigehold were both penned, the culmination of our stories and our time in Skarsind. Whoever ends up with these halls, I hope that they stand strong and true for every generation that is to come, and I hope that I will be invited to visit from time to time to remember these walls fondly and share with you anecdotes and tales that have not made it into this volume. Welcome home, my friends. You have earned it.